Gravel In Our Voices
by newheights
Summary: Like It Was Before PT II
1. Hot Knife

"Swear to God, Savannah Jane, you're the only person I know that wears a seat belt in an apocalypse."  
I pause my brush mid-stroke; I had been painting my toe nails electric blue from a lumpy but functional bottle of polish I'd found, an almost impossible luxury to attain these days.  
"There's a cop nearby, idiot," I respond affectionately and catch Dale smiling at this exchange from the drivers seat beside me. There's a fleeting moment where this almost feels like a typical road trip amongst friends, gone before I can truly savor it.  
"Of course I'm wearing a seat belt." Shane laughs,  
"Darlin' if I didn't give you a ticket for going 65 in a 45 I sure as hell ain't gonna give you one now."  
I twist in my seat towards him, delighted.  
"45 in a 65? You remember that? How can you possibly remember that?"  
Mirroring me in a comically exaggerated gesture, Shane twists too, leaving the both of us facing each other. "Hard to forget the best thing to ever happen to you."  
"If the two of you don't shut up," Andrea interrupts  
in a threatening tone, "I may puke."  
I giggle-I actually giggle-and sit back in my seat.  
"Speaking of puking," Glenn pipes up,  
"Crack a window, would ya, Savannah? I'm dying back here."  
I oblige, rolling the window down and capping the bottle, leaving it to roll around the glove compartment, glad for the wind in my hair. I missed fresh air.  
"I wonder if Daryl would let me ride his bike?"  
I hadn't meant for it to, but this snaps Shane to attention.  
"I see you on that bike, a window ain't the only thing gettin' cracked." He mutters sulkily.  
Sighing, I unbuckle my precious seat belt and move to Shane in the cabin, walking funnily because of the wet toes and the rocking motion of the vehicle.  
"You threatenin' me, Walsh?"  
I'm shoving his shoulder, faux-aggressively and he laughs, sliding over to let me into the booth he's occupying. "No, not you-the redneck."  
"Your neck's looking a little more than tan there yourself, babe."  
I tease, squeezing his hand as he goes back to cleaning his gun, spread out on the small table in pieces and Glenn moves swiftly to the seat I'd left open, muttering "Shotgun,"  
"Can you teach me how to do that?" Andrea asks Shane, gesturing to the parts and oils and rags.  
"It's complicated," I warn her. "By all means, learn how, but do what I do and con Shane into doing the work for you whenever possible."  
Andrea glance up at me with surprise-"You have a gun?"  
"The trick is,"" Shane jokes before I can answer, "getting all these pieces back together the same way."  
"Oh geeze," Dale groans and I think he's referring to Shane's lame joke until I feel the RV shuddering to a halt. Shane's hand immediately goes to my hip, working his way out of the seat, pressing a quick kiss to my sweaty temple and murmuring "It's alright," reflexively.  
A jam. We've encountered a traffic jam of epic proportions.  
I'm up and moving past Shane as soon as I realize this, yanking the map from the dash, passing it to Glenn. I can maybe clean a gun okay, but I can't read a map to save my life.  
"Think we can get through?"  
"Have to," Dale answers. "Can't spare the fuel to turn around."  
It's a tense few moments as we try to squeeze through single-file behind Daryl's bike and I find myself sitting back down-this time next to a nervous Andrea, placing my hand absently over hers.  
We almost make it-we're close-when something under the hood lets go with a loud pinging noise, the engine steaming. Andrea and I both sag a little in defeat, and then we're all emerging from our caravan to circle the carcass of the RV, reminiscent of both a beached whale and something dead in the water all at once.

"Problem, Dale?"  
Shane actually asks, bringing up a very strong urge to smack him, which I resist.  
"Oh, just the small matter of being stuck in the middle of nowhere with a busted radiator."  
The older man quips, having adopted a sarcastic tone which, frankly, is deserved.  
"With no hope of calling triple A, either."  
I exchange a look with Daryl who rolls his eyes before leaving the group to dive into an open hatchback fearlessly, in up to his elbows.  
"Um, not to state the obvious..." I begin, waving an arm at our surroundings.  
"Okay," Dale relents. "That was dumb."  
"We can find a radiator hose here."  
Shane states going back to his macho stance now that he has a task to accomplish.  
"There's a whole buncha stuff we can find." Daryl drawls.  
"S'vannah, gimme a hand."  
I'm helping him raid a cooler filled with exactly one full Vitamin Water, a half-drank bottle of coke and warm water up to my forearms the result of a long-since melted bag of ice when Lori throws her two cents in: "This is a graveyard."  
My urge to smack someone is back and stronger than ever.  
It's been a few weeks since the horror show that was the CDC, and I've come a little ways towards forgiving and forgetting, but there are moments (such as this one) that I long for a good old-fashioned bitch slap to either of the parties involved in hurting me.  
Maybe I'd get over it in time but being around Lori was a constant reminder-and it's not like I'd had a moment to myself to process any of it.  
Daryl suddenly snorts at this in sarcasm but he's so quiet I would have missed it if I weren't close by.  
Still, it spurred me on. "Well, hell, Lori,"  
I sigh, surprised at how tired my own voice sounds.  
"At this point, isn't everything?"  
Lori, stubborn as always, is shaking her head as the group mulls this over.  
"I don't like this," more than a couple of us turn to Rick, expecting him to either call out orders or put his wife in her place but it is Shane who speaks next, grabbing my belt loop and pulling me away from the Sedan to fall into step next to him, my hands dripping warm droplets of water across the even warmer pavement.  
"C'mon, y'all," he hollers, the two of us already separating from the group to go scavenge.  
"Gather what you can."  
Without protest, everyone disperses.  
Rick does not speak even once.


	2. Sweet Child O Mine

A/N: Thank you so much for your kind words and your patience:) I'm pleased you all love S/S as much as I do!

Also, it should be noted that the 'canned food' crack was inspired by Max Brooks' book The Zombie Survival Guide and Savannah's "Murder weapon from Home Depot" bit was a quote from the film Jennifer's Body

* * *

We go just under fifty yards without speaking before Shane lets go of me, hoisting his rifle in both hands.  
"You think we'll actually find anything?"  
Shane shrugs. "Only one way to find out." I hesitate before opening my big mouth next, uncharacteristically nervous. "Shane, I think-"  
"Holy _shit_," Shane mutters only, in his excitement it comes out more like 'Ho-lee shiiiit' and I can understand why once I've turned my gaze the direction he's facing. He's facing what appears to be a water truck. "Is that...?"  
Shane thrusts his rifle at me, "Hold this, girl."  
Glenn who has caught up to us and is no more than ten feet away has not looked up from his radiator hunt a single time as Shane yanks the door up revealing gallons upon gallons of filtered water. "Oh sweet Jesus,"  
"You seein' this, baby?"  
I nod, dumbstruck.  
"Hey, Glenn! Were we short on water?"  
Glenn finally realizes what Shane's up to and laughs with delight.  
The next thing I know the rifle is being stripped from my hands and I'm being bodily moved to stand underneath an open jug of water.  
Shane is soaked to the skin, yelling something about being baptized while I stand there getting thoroughly and completely drenched.  
Water never felt so good-at least for the last two weeks or so.  
Our good fortune (and Glenn's maniacal laughter) does quite a bit to lift my spirits, leaving me quietly optimistic.  
This, of course, can not last for long in our new world.  
"I'm goin' back to the RV to dry off, jerk."  
Shane nods still contentedly splashing around, wasting water.  
"Be careful." he says, but there is no conviction to his tone, and besides, neither of us are worried-why should we be with two efficient men standing guard?What a dangerous assumption this is to make.

"Look at you, lazy," I tease Andrea unabashedly peeling my sopping shirt over my head-modesty has vanished quite some time ago-trying (and failing) not to drip water all over the place, swatting her lightly with the washed-out red fabric leaving a wet splotch on her arm.  
"I'm trying to get this damn gun back together,"  
I hang my shirt and jeans over the tiny shower rod and reemerge barefoot and trying to dry myself with varying degrees of success using a hand towel, hoping the hot air will dry my bra and boy shorts before I have to get redressed.  
"I miss my hair dryer," I sigh coming to sit, leaning over the table.  
Andrea gives me a ghost of a smile without really seeing me-she's too focused on the gun.  
"You're preaching to the choir, there."  
I, in turn, barely hear her studying the pieces of the gun intently trying to remember all Shane taught me.  
"Okay, this piece," I pick one up gingerly trying to avoid water damage, "slides onto this doohickey here."  
"Doohickey, huh? Is that the technical term?"  
Andrea's laughing as she speaks but movement outside the camper has caught my eye and I ignore her.  
What I'd first taken to be members of our group returning to 'base' was, in fact, a group of walkers.  
So many it makes me dizzy, reminds me of a long-ago high school field trip to the Atlanta aquarium where we'd learned about and witnessed first hand fish traveling in large groups such as this-they'd called it a school.  
"Shut up," I mutter sotto voice as the smell hits me (how could I have missed it?) making Andrea laugh again.  
Ordinarily I'd rejoice at this-Andrea's good cheer had been stretched almost to its breaking point with the loss of Amy-but now was no ordinary time.  
I reach my hand across the table, gripping hers with such ferocity that she immediately quiets. I take precaution not to move my upper body which is framed by the window, lest we be spotted. "Andrea," I hiss. "Shut up." Sliding my eyes to her left, "Walkers. Don't move."  
And what does Andrea do? Andrea bolts.  
This situation might prove to be semi-salvageable had Andrea not, upon leaving her seat, busted her ass on the water that had dripped off of me going down hard on the linoleum. I have just enough time for a crazily disconnected thought about serendipity.  
Had I not come into the RV and dripped all over the place I might not feel so close to being eaten.  
It also flies through my mind how likely it is that I will die in my underwear.  
"Oh shit," Andrea mutters. The gun was all-but useless and it sounded like a herd of elephants had taken over the RV. Oh, shit was right.  
I drop down to her level feverishly trying to plan just as a Hawaiin-shirted freakshow ambles up the campers stairs and into our lives.  
I hadn't even known those things could climb stairs to begin with, but here we were.  
"What now?" Andrea whisper-screams, panicking.  
"We're canned food, that's 'what now'!" I respond, doing some whisper-shouting of my own, pushing her into the tiny cubicle of the bathroom.  
"We can't both fit in here!" Like I don't know this? (I know this from Shane and I sneaking around for some 'alone time') I keep shoving thinking she'll get the message which thankfully she does, closing the flimsy accordion door behind herself with a loud 'whap' and I do the only thing I can think of, feeling like a little kid playing hide-and-go-seek right as the catcher reaches 10: I bolt for the bedroom (I do not fall) and I wedge myself behind the door.

Whatever Andrea's doing in the bathroom, it's noisy with periodic clinking noises coming through the door, drawing the walkers attention.  
Thankfully, serendipity comes into play once again as I cower behind my own door, scarcely breathing. The walker slips in the water.  
I can't believe it and for a horrible seemingly-endless moment I think I might laugh, blowing my cover.  
It is especially funny for me to think that Andrea's motor skills mirror a walkers.  
"Is it safe?" She shouts from the bathroom whipping open the door even as she's yelling shocked to find the walker sprawled on the floor at her feet, one rotten hand reaching out to clasp her ankle tightly before she drops onto the thing wielding a screwdriver she's found who-knows where, stabbing viciously through the eye and into the brain beyond, stilling the creature forever.  
I'd witnessed this all unfolding from the crack between the door and the ledge, watching now as Andrea sags in relief.  
"You see that?" Almost jubilant. It's morbid, but Amy would have been proud. I know I am.  
"Savannah?" Worried now.  
"Hush, there might be more!"  
This shuts her up in a hurry, crab walking into the bedroom and shutting the door quietly behind herself, the both of us sitting down, braced against it.  
"A screwdriver?" I whisper. "Do you get all your murder weapons at the Home Depot?"  
Andrea snorts, slapping a filthy hand over her own mouth before I can get there.  
Seems I'm not the only one who has a problem with hysterical laughter.  
"Dale." Andrea's voice sounds strangled. "Threw it to me from the roof."  
Wow. Color me impressed. "You did good. Just next time...be quiet next time."  
Andrea nods and we both fall silent as we sit there counting the seconds wondering when it will be safe to leave the bedroom.  
"No shots fired; that's good, right?"  
I nod, busy straining my ears to catch the noise coming from first the staircase and soon after, the cabin: footsteps.  
Someone live though, judging by the speed and sure-footedness. "Savannah?"  
Shane. Oh, thank God.  
I climb to my feet, not at all surprised to find my legs shaking and unsteady, hand on the doorknob and waiting for the all-clear.  
"Savannah!" Sounding near-panicked now. "In here!" I call  
"Is it safe to come out?" Andrea.  
Shane, instead of answering shoves the door open, pulling me out of the bedroom and into his arms in swift economical movements.  
"Are you hurt?" His hands running up my arms, my face, turning me to check every available inch of skin (which is a lot, keep in mind).  
_"Are you hurt?" _Louder this time, almost yelling. Dale pops his head through the skylight and shh's Shane irritably.  
We're not out of the woods yet, so to speak.  
"I'm fine! Shane, I'm fine, are you-"  
"What in hell happened?" No doubt referring to the dead thing at our feet. "Why are you naked? Jesus, sweetheart!"  
"I was changing and it was just there and Andrea stabbed it and I..." I trail off realizing I've begun to cry and shake from delayed reaction.  
Sometime in the last few moments Shane had let go of me but he grabs hold again, pressing my face to his wet gravel-speckled shirt (I won't even ask) and calling me 'Honey, baby, sweetheart' seemingly at a loss for words, and I don't much blame him; we could have lost each other.  
"Rick!" This comes from Andrea whom I'll admit I forgot was standing there for a moment-the poor girl must have felt so awkward.  
Shane whirls toward his best friend, all white-hot fury and I shy away from this conversation, grabbing the first article of clothing I come across, one of Glenn's shirts I'm pretty sure as I yank it on where it hangs loosely and blessedly covering everything.  
"Where were you, man?" Infuriated, shoving at Rick who merely swats Shane's hands away without a second thought.  
"Sophia's missing."  
The entire world seems to stop, or at least slow with these two words, dumbfounding us all.  
I feel the slow acidic burn in my throat as bile forms while I steadfastly do not think of all the things that could have happened.  
"We're going out to look for her, all hands on deck. Bring your rifle."  
There's not really time to spare, logically I know this but in the moment emotions rule and I grab for Shane, holding him in his spot next to me for precious extra seconds until he looks down to meet my eyes both questioning and impatient.  
"Bring her back."  
It's Rick who answers my plea, nodding once, hard.  
"We will." He sounds sure of himself and I hope he's as capable as he thinks himself to be.


	3. Death Valley

The men disperse immediately, all loaded down with guns and solemnly quiet.  
I busy myself dragging out a pair of shorts while Andrea goes off to comfort Carol whom I currently can not even look at, worried that I might break down, knowing that I have no right.  
"Dale?" I gulp, gathering myself once I'm fully dressed and have left the RV.  
"What can be done? How do I help?"  
I'm waved over and handed a wrench.  
"Stand here. Hold this, and look busy-I have to go find the gauze for T-Dog."  
"What the hell happened to T?"  
"Cut his arm pretty badly on a car door."  
I thrust the wrench back out to Dale; who, really, is going to believe that I know how to fix the RV?  
Even pretending to work on the engine, I'm apt to do more harm than good.  
"I know where the gauze is, I'll go help him."  
Dale looks relived that the role of Florence Nightingale has been recast but I'm ignoring this, looking around for our wounded warrior.  
"Hey, dog, come on; inside."  
"'Sup, Savannah?"  
He looks ashen and the blood is falling from his arm in sheets, dripping on the asphalt.  
'Sup, Savannah? Really?  
Trying to match his aloofness I go for gallows humor.  
"The doctor will see you now."  
"I'm fine-really." Reassuring me even as he sways on his feet, not making a move to go inside.  
"What you are is delusional. Sit tight."  
I leave T unsupervised long enough to backtrack to the Sedan with the water cooler once more sticking my arm in the rank-smelling melted ice and coming up with the Vitamin Water, using Glenn's poor shirt to first wipe the bottle and then twist the cap off.  
Eventually, once I deem it clean I hold it out to T, who looks on dubiously. "What, you really think that's gonna help?"  
"I think it's better than nothing."  
Wondering, even as I'm saying this, if Vitamin Water can spoil; it smelled okay.  
"Besides, pink's the best flavor-if you don't drink it, I will."  
"Pink is not a flavor." T protests but he takes the bottle with his uninjured arm, swigging heartily.  
"Shut up and get in the RV."

We're done wrapping his arm and T-Dog is napping long before Shane and Glenn resurface, heartbreakingly without the little girl they'd gone after. I pull Shane to the side who hugs me without speaking. I almost dread asking, but, "Any news?"  
"She headed back towards the highway, veered off."  
Shane answers, wiping sweat from his face, looking exhausted. I raise an eye brow at him, a how-do-you-know look.  
"Daryl's a pretty good tracker." High praise, coming from Shane.  
"Listen, babe, we gotta keep people occupied, okay? Can't have nobody going off on their own on a search and rescue mission.  
Have 'em help you scavenge, move cars out the road."  
I am more than down with the idea of staying occupied, even if I find it dumb to assume the herd won't turn around, double back for us.  
"You go let them know, okay? I'll get started. We gotta..." I trail off and swallow thickly- "Shane, we gotta talk."  
This scares him, although I don't mean for it to.  
"Savannah, what's-"  
"In a minute." If I'm going to do this, i want it all out at once, no interruptions. "Go get everyone started."  
Shane hesitates, unsure, and I push at him lightly. "I'm fine-go."  
For a moment I think he might argue, but finally, he nods, accepting this as if I tell him what to do on a regular basis and I could not love him more for rolling with the punches like that.

Shane finds me in a dirty blue Hyundai, the contents of its former owner scattered next to the highway while I sit in the driver's seat holding a set of keys that had all but fallen into my lap the moment I let the visor down.  
Little known fact, and one I'd picked up from dating a cop-if people keep their keys in their vehicle, statistically speaking, they'll be tucked in the visor or under the seat. "What're you doin', girl?"  
"Trying to work up my nerve...I want to see if this thing runs."  
Shane smiles down at me, propping his forearms against the door jamb, leaning comfortably.  
"What, sick of the RV already?"  
I let this pass without dignifying it with an answer, instead gathering my nerve around me like a blanket before blurting out the truth:  
"I want to leave."  
Shane nods. "We are. Just as soon as we find Sophia everyone's headed-"  
"No." I interrupt, surprising the both of us. "I mean, I want to wait until we find Sophia, but Shane I want to _leave_.  
I want us to leave the group. I've been thinking about this a lot, and we can make it on our own."  
Shane appears floored by this revelation, not that I blame him. "You're sure?"  
I'm nodding before he has even fully formed the words.  
"I've been sure since the CDC, I just..there's never been a right time to bring it up. Not that now is." I hasten to add.  
Shane answers by leaning into the car to take the keys, placing then in the ignition and cranking the engine which sputters at first, but turns over when coaxed, the tank full and the radio blaring to life with an Emergency Broadcast warning, the same thing we'd been hearing off and on for weeks depending on the signal, but still it brings everyone running. Including Lori, who murmurs an appreciative, "Nice car."  
No doubt hoping to head off a scene Shane springs into action, taking me aside to talk privately.  
"I'm gonna check the motor, the oil. Leave the heavy stuff for me, but see if you can't quietly gather some of our things, stash 'em in the trunk. I'll leave it unlocked." I'm hesitant to become excited just yet.  
"So we can really go? We can leave, just like that?"  
Shane shrugs, seemingly indifferent. I have no idea that he's been thinking the same thing for weeks.  
"If that's what you want, Savannah Jane."  
I rethink everything hard in the moment before I answer him, wanting to be absolutely sure.  
"It's what I want."  
And it is-I just hadn't expected to go so easily.

I'm on my way back from the last trip to load our new car-Shane's already handled the suitcases, everything is packed, and I'm feeling a little like a fugitive when I hear the arguing. Like a chicken I first slow and hen stop entirely, not wanting to get involved.  
Walker invasions I can handle with aplomb-our group imploding, even if I'm to be leaving it soon?  
That, not so much.  
I have to force my feet to get moving again, palming the sweat from my forehead as I go.  
"My father gave it to me!" Shit, Andrea.  
"It's mine, Dale."  
Dale, blustering as Glenn hastens to leave the scene.  
"I'm just gonna hold onto it for you, that's all."  
I don't want to get involved in this little drama but hell if that's worked out for me so far.  
"Hold onto what for her?"  
Dale reels guiltily, turning to face me. "Dale?"  
"Everything cool?" Shane calls a few car lengths down.  
I shrug, still having no idea what's even going on.  
Curiosity (or boredom) brings Shane over and Dale promptly spills his guts.  
"Andrea wants her gun back."  
'Back'? I think to myself. How did Dale even wind up with it to begin with?  
Andrea and I scoff practically in unison. "Well, yeah," Shane holds one hand up to me at hip level as I begin to speak, a shushing gesture.  
"I'm not comfortable with it," Dale confides man-to-man. Meanwhile, Andrea looks angry enough to spit.  
"If I off myself, I promise to do it somewhere that you won't have to clean up the mess, okay, Horvath?" Whoa.  
"Truth is," Shane interrupts: I know Shane and when he begins a sentence with 'Truth is' he's stalling for time, deliberating even as he speaks. In the old world if I asked him 'Do these jeans make my butt look big' while he's trying to relax and watch the game, I was treated with a 'truth is'. "Less guns floatin' around, the better."  
"You turning over your weapon?" Andrea fires back at Shane, making him laugh.  
"No,"  
"I did." I volunteer. The three of them turn to me, surprised and I shrug.  
"I turned my gun in to Shane a while back-I don't want any accidents."  
This is not quite a blatant lie-I'd _wanted_ to turn my gun in to Shane, worried I'd get up in the middle of the night to pee and shoot someone just trying to enjoy the fresh air. We'd compromised that I wouldn't carry the tiny gun on my person but keep it nearby at almost all times; let's just say the foraged bottle of nail polish hadn't been the only thing rattling around in the RV's glove box.  
Shane nods enthusiastically at my lie and just like that, it is accepted as fact.  
"Savannah'll get her gun back once she's had time to train some-that's what y'all need, is proper training."  
Oh please, like Shane hadn't trained me ages ago?  
Still, one good lie begets another. And if grouping me in with Andrea as a novice kept the peace that was fine.  
"Whatever," Is the huffed response we receive. "This is bullshit, and you know it."  
Andrea spins on her heel before stalking away, her chin jutted out in a classic pissed off stance.  
Dale takes exactly one step after her before I intercede.  
"Leave it-I'll go."


	4. Don't Dream It's Over

"Hey, Annie Oakley! Hold up a minute."

Andrea goes a few feet further before plopping down on the shoulder of the highway, bringing her knees up to her chest defiantly, giving me a wary, haughty look. She resembles, at the moment, a very pissed-off teenager.

"You believe this shit? Their macho, he-man attitude?"

"The world ended, remember?"

I ask, settling my weight onto the guardrail, turning to face this woman, my unlikely ally.

"He Tarzan, me Jane. All that crap."

Andrea snorts out a laugh and then the silence spins out between us.

"I get it, you know." I commiserate.

"Why you did it. Or almost did it, anyhow. If something happened to Shane, I..." I trail off, having difficulty even picturing this.

"I might seek out spontaneous combustion, too. At the very least."

"It's different," Andrea mutters sullenly.

"It's not, though." I disagree. "I'm sorry as hell about Amy-we all are. But we're on your side, Andrea. You have to get the stick out of your ass and the chip off your shoulder-it's time."

As if I have any room to talk; my chip is so large it might as well come with its own jar of salsa.

Still, this seems to sink into Andrea's hazy fury, deflating her a bit; even if she doesn't say anything, it's obvious.

However, before I can savor my small victory she's scrambling to her feet, yanking me away from my perch even as I realize why...the bushes lining the woods beyond the shoulder are rattling as something makes its way out.

"See?" Andrea hisses, "This is why we need a gun." I can't speak, for fear.

"They're back!" Glenn yells and if I squint I find I can make out the shapes as people-our people-not walkers.

"So we can go off half-cocked, literally, might I add, and blow a hole through Daryl?" I demand of Andrea impatiently. "Get real."

"You didn't find her." Carol states, her voice taking on an odd, flat inflection that I don't much care for.

It sounds too much like shock for me to feel comfortable hearing it.

"Her trail went cold, but we're going back out at first light."

"No," I protest, even though it's not my place. "No way, it's getting dark!"

"Savannah, out in the dark's no good." Daryl says in that quiet way of his that brooks no argument and I fall quiet, knowing he's far more well-versed in tracking than I ever will be.

"We'd just fall all over each other, get ou'selves lost."

"She can't spend the night out there alone!" Carol wails and while it's a pathetic, heart-wrenching sound, I rejoice that she's snapped out of her dull fog. "My baby's all alone."

I move automatically, wrapping my arm around Carol, having her take the seat I'd vacated against the rail.

"We can't panic," Rick implores, getting between Carol and the rest of the group, in full Cop mode now.

It seems to be catching as Shane comes to stand behind his kneeling partner, hand on the butt of his gun.

"The walker we took down was nowhere near-"

_"Walker?!"_ Carol reels and I tighten my hold on her slender shoulders, afraid for a moment that she might tip right off the rail.

"It was nowhere near Sophia, you understand me?"

"But...the blood...?" Carol plucks weakly at Rick's ruined shirt, gesturing to the fresh stains I had not even noticed. Some cop I would be.

Rick falters and I share a worried look with Shane over the top of his partner's head.

"We cut the sum' bitch open." Daryl volunteers, snapping both my head and undivided attention back to the attention at hand.  
"Ain't nothin' in there but some woodchuck."

I feel my stomach do a slow forward roll at this, but it seems, impossibly, to cheer Carol.

There's a moment of peace that seems as if the group-myself included-may see reason in taking a break.

Then, the grieving mother collapses like a house of cards into hysterics.

Both Lori and Andrea rush in to offer comfort, summarily brushing me aside. I am more than okay with this, as useless as I feel.

Shane sits heavily on Andrea's far right side while I hang back wondering what can be done.

"How could you just leave her?" Carol demands of Rick. "What were you thinking?"

"There were walkers," Rick, still trying to remedy the situation as best he can. "Everywhere. I had to draw them off. I tried."

Shane reaches for my hand, making me jump before pulling me into his side and speaking.

"Now, nobody doubts that, Rick,"

"Like hell! You didn't try hard enough."

Carol's voice cuts through the group like a slap, silencing everyone at once, a pretty neat trick under more normal circumstances.

"That's my little girl out there." Then, her coup de gras, "What if it were Carl?"

Lori looks stricken at the mere thought while Rick doesn't react at all, merely presses both hands to his head as if to quell a splitting headache before turning abruptly and walking down the highway, following the yellow line away from us without looking back once.

"'S a nice night," Shane ventures much later, startling me out of my near-doze.

"Clear, bright. Could be worse-could be raining."

All of this is true, but it pains me to discuss something as mundane as the weather with Shane.

"Rain would muddle up the tracks, make tomorrow a lot harder than it has to be."

The tracks-oh shit. I hadn't even considered this.

"You think we'll find her?"

We're sitting atop the RV in lawn chairs, side by side but studiously gazing off in different directions, pulling night watch until Glenn can act as our relief when I finally ask the question I'd been avoiding all evening.

Shane twists his upper body to stroke my face before turning back and speaking.

As if this will take the sting out of his answer. It does not.

"No, Savannah, I don't."

I pointedly turn away at this, scanning the horizon with renewed purpose.

Mostly, I don't want to break down and cry.

"I know you think I'm bein' an asshole, but if we were gonna, we would have by now."

I clear my throat to make sure my voice comes out steady.

"I don't think you're an asshole," a token, automatic protest. "Are you still going to help look for her?"

I don't intend for this last to come out as a question, but my voice goes up an octave towards the end of my sentence, giving it an inflection which betrays me.

"'Course I am." Shane surprises me by sounding offended.

Then, rapidly changing the subject, "What was all that with Andrea today?"

I hedge carefully. "Which part?"

I feel more than see Shane move to rub the back of his head tiresomely.

"That lie sure came off your tongue easily, girl."

I fight hard not to let loose with a sarcastic guffaw: it's late. We're both exhausted and cranky.

"It shut her up, didn't it?"

This makes Shane laugh, probably more loudly than he should with everyone sleeping beneath us.

"Hell if it didn't." Then, softening,

"We make a good team, Savannah Jane."

"Yeah, I think so too."

Shane adopts a lascivious tone, "What do you say we get out of here once our shift's over an'-"

"Coming up the ladder!" Glenn near-shouts sounding panicked and flustered.

"Well within earshot over here!"

"Would you calm down, Rhee?"

I laugh as Shane drags me to my weary feet.

"You got your gun?" Shane questions and Glenn nods the affirmative.

"Is it_ loaded_?" Glenn nods again, and I stifle another laugh as Shane just stands there, staring at the younger man until he sighs loudly and opens the chamber, showing proof that the gun is ready to go.

"Awright then. Be sure to keep the safety on until you need it." Shane grins wickedly, first at Glenn, then at me.

"We're goin' to bed-ain't we, Savannah?"

Glenn grimaces and this time I lose the battle of holding in my bubbly laughter.

"Yeah. Goodnight." Glenn grumbles.

"Goodnight."


	5. Backfire

The next morning dawns clear and unbelievably hot as Rick calls the group together, everyone awake and with it for the most part, long accustomed to the lack of morning caffeine.

Shane, Glenn and I are the only exceptions, lagging behind utterly exhausted after our respective all-nighters but still eager to help out when and where we can. In an ideal world we would have been allowed to sleep in; then again, in an ideal world, Sophia would be terrified at the prospect of navigating Jr High School on her own, not presumably walker-infested woods.

"We're gonna break into groups," Rick announces, "Anyone gets lost, just-"

"What about weapons?"

Rick breaks off as Andrea predictably interrupts.

"Carl found some yesterday." Lori volunteers timidly, bringing Rick's attention zeroing in on her.

"Carl? And where were you?"

This is a valid question to ask, but there is no time to waste on a domestic dispute.

Lori throws Rick a vicious glare before disappearing into the RV without answering, reemerging with a rolled leather sheaf, holding it out to her husband defiantly.

"Today on 'As The World Turns'..." I mutter earning myself a pinch in the ribs from Shane.  
He can chastise me all he wants-it's clear he's biting back a smile himself.

Sighing, Rick takes the proffered weapons and unrolls the sheaf before perking considerably as the arsenal unrolls before him.

"Everybody takes a weapon."

He's addressing the group, but looking at Andrea, who scoffs.

"Those? No. We need guns."

"We've been over this-" It's my turn to pinch Shane, only not as lightly as he had done to me.

"These are quieter, Andy. Pick one." I try to placate Andrea and her bruised ego for the second time in as many days.

"And if there's danger?_ Real_ danger?"

I'm sure the hatchets available are more than adequate, but Shane's temper is short, leaving me without time to explain this.

"Me n' Rick are carrying. Daryl, too. We can't have somebody poppin' off rounds at a member of the group just 'cuz a tree rustles."  
So he'd over heard that, had he?

I blanch when Andrea shoots he a wounded look and try to look innocent something that is harder than I'd anticipated, especially considering I hadn't actually done anything.

"Everybody stay sharp, stay within eyesight of one another." Rick calls, bringing the discussion to a halt, queueing the lot of us to disperse.

"You got your pack ready?"

Daryl asks me and I nod, accepting one of the knives from the stack with much appreciation.

"You be careful with that," Shane warns, "don't want nobody to lose a hand. Or worse."

There's a long moment of horrified, awkward silence, something you would think would be lost along with social graces at the end of the world, but you'd be wrong. Big-mouth Walsh strikes again.

"We'll be down by the crick." Daryl announces, pointedly ignoring Shane, whose ears have turned a fiery red.  
"It's her only landmark; you see footprints, try not ta tread on 'em too much."

"Alright. Y'all ready?" Rick again, impatient and harried, eager to relieve his guilty conscious over the girl lost in the woods.

I sigh, glancing around the group. As we'll ever be.

"I'm sick of this damn heat," I bitch an hour later without much conviction, slapping at a mosquito that has lighted on my arm.

"Language." Rick reminds me, amiable enough, smiling as he cuts his eyes towards Carl who is keeping pace with Shane a yard ahead, rambling excitedly about the knife he was allowed to carry.

I nod my acknowledgement, half listening as Shane explains the many uses of a serrated blade and half marveling at how small Carl still is.

He's had to grow up fast and sometimes it's easy to take that for granted.

Other than boy-talk, everyone is quiet, anxiously combing the underbrush on either side of the trail, walking in straight lines, looking and hoping for any scrap of a sign-a piece of cloth, her doll, something significant saying "Sophia was here" while also keeping our tired eyes peeled for a size 6 Ked footprint, not wanting to walk over them.

I'm so intent on my tasks that I find myself ahead of the group, breaking away.

I would have tripped over the camp sight had the smell not hit me first, rank in the still summer air while I prayed for a breeze.  
I knew that smell. "Shane?!"

He pantomimes something like 'keep your voice down' as he pulls me back, away from the uknown.

I make a point to quiet down but can't keep myself from talking entirely-I'm too keyed up. "Shane, what if it's her?"

As I ask this, casting a glance around for Carol I can feel a mixture of panic and bile climbing its way up my throat.

"'S not." Shane reassures. "She'd be fresher-that's old meat."

That's it. At Shane's all-too astute description I lose it, stumbling a few paces away blindly before emptying the contents of my stomach messily into an over grown patch of weeds off the beaten path.  
I retch so hard it knocks the breath out of me and the reflexive deep gasp I pull in afterwords is horrifying, setting off a new round of purging.

Shane pats my back apologetically while I get this over with, but I'm all too aware of Lori rolling his eyes and Daryl passing by us, going to investigate more thoroughly.

Dixon seems to have taken the little girls disappearance to heart. Rick's trailing along behind him, soon after recoiling from the tent with his own brand of disgust, Carol right beside him, looking defeated. It's pointless, but I have to ask:

"Did you..?"  
It's as far as I get before I'm whirling away again, heaving.  
Now that I've started it would appear that, for all the world, I can't stop.

Still, Daryl seems to know what I'd been after. "It ain't her."

I sag feeling relief and defeat in equal measure, causing a funny elevator-taking-off sensation in my gut.

"Awright, back to the RV." Shane announces, helping me straighten.

My head is pounding so hard I'm seeing spots and I'm dizzy but I protest anyhow.

"What? No. Hell, no. Sophia is..we can't just leave her, Shane."

"WE aren't," Shane corrects gently, holding onto my shoulders as I sway lightly on my feet.  
"You are. We'll keep at it while you go lie down. Glenn, you think you can walk her?"

Poor Glenn. Subtly, I shake my head 'no' at him, pissed that the search party will find itself a pair short because I had come down with, essentially, the vapors like I was some Victorian lady. Glenn sighs, looking resigned as my escort.

"Come on, Savannah."

Crap. Shane leans in under the guise of kissing my forehead and murmurs "Got your gun?"

This is such an utter reversal of the night before it gives me vertigo.

"Yes." Of course I had my gun.

Shane does lean in now, kissing my forehead. "Use it if you need to."

Then he turns, re-shouldering his rifle as he joins the group once more, the lot of them leaving me behind.

"Glenn, if you don't go with them, I'm gonna kick your ass. I can walk on my own, thank you very much."

Glenn surprises the hell out of me by laughing as if he hadn't had a vomiting woman foisted upon him in 100 degree weather.

"Savannah, you can barely even see straight. You try kicking my ass, you're just gonna end up sprawling on your own."

I can't help but concede; he has a point.

"Fine," I sigh. "Whatever. Lead the way."


	6. Always

_"Make way, sick woman coming through!"_

Glenn is carrying on and this brings Dale and T-Dog to attention, quick, Dale peering down off the side of the RV at us anxiously.

"Savannah, you alright?"

T-Dog is more succinct in his asking; "Were you bit?"

"No. I'm fine."

Glenn snorts derisively, taking all of the authority from my statement.  
"She tossed her cookies everywhere."

Stupidly, I blush. "I got too hot, is all."

Dale keeps on peering at me, but T-Dog has lost a considerable amount of interest in the conversation, thank God.

"Didn't drink enough water. No big deal, guys."

_"Or,"_ Glenn provides helpfully, "maybe you're pregnant."

Three heads snap his way in unison; I'm pretty sure Dale almost falls from his perch atop the RV at this statement and T-Dog raises his eyebrow, staring at my near-concave belly with renewed investment in this conversation.  
They all three seem to be waiting for some kind of statement from me, so I provide one:

"Whatta comedian." I drawl sarcastically, hauling my tired body up the RV steps, meaning to climb into the murphy bed beneath the open window with its enticing breeze fluttering the curtains. Trying, very carefully not to confirm or deny.

I pause in the doorway to find everyone still staring at me-Glenn and T, anyhow. Dale I can only guess on.

Reflexively, I blurt: "I'm not."

They relax, only now I'm concerned, counting days as they pretend to have only been mildly invested in this conversation to begin with.

"Now bring me some water."

"You got it," Glenn promises and I settle into the bed, drifting off to sleep only a few moments later, clutching my lukewarm bottle and feeling incredibly selfish for leaving the group.

When I awaken sometime later most everyone is back and wearing panic in their eyes.

* * *

I do a quick head count, taking in Carol, Dixon and Andrea who looks as bedraggled as I feel and whom is pointedly ignoring Dale as he tries to check her over.

"What happened?"

I'm waiting on the rest of our group to emerge from the woods, but so far, nothing.

"Andrea...had a close call." Carol tells me. "With a walker."

I feel a jolt of combined fear and adrenaline. "Where's Shane?"

There's a pause that feels insufferably long

Finally, Daryl shrugs with one bony shoulder.  
"With Rick I reckon,"

"You RECKON?" I parrot, "What the hell is-"

"Carl." Andrea interrupts, brushing Dale's hands away. "He was shot."

These three words knock the air from my lungs and I find I can't quite wrap my head around this.

"What do you mean he was-"

"We don't know; what is this, twenty questions?" Daryl bites off, impatient with me; I can't much blame him.

"Some girl-some woman-on a horse came for Lori, took her to a farm, called it the Greene place? I think?"  
Carol answers while I stand there wondering if I might still be dreaming. "But I won't go," Carol continues,  
"We can't leave-what if Sophia comes back?"

"The group is split," Dale concludes

"So split it more?" Carol is incredulous  
"What if my little girl comes back and we're not here? I won't have Sophia thinking I abandoned her. I can't; I'm all she has left."

"What about tomorrow morning?" Daryl interrupts with this compromise and surprisingly, Carol quiets, deferring to him, or at least stops talking at any rate. The fact that tomorrow will have been 72 hours-the most important in a missing child case, even in the old world-goes unsaid.

"Tomorrow mornin' we'll pull up stakes, leave her provisions, maybe a sign. I'll hold back tonight, watch the RV."

This is a good plan and I'm glad the group is fortunate enough to count Daryl among our ranks.

"If the RV stays then I stay, too." Dale announces decisively while Andrea chines in her thirds and Glenn attempts to add his fourth.

I'm shaking my head violently but Dale speaks before I can force the words from my rusty throat.

"Not you: you're going."

To say that Glenn is not pleased with this plan would be putting it mildly.

"What?!" He demands in response "Why is it always me?"

I feel a tinge of guilt at this, but not enough to stop me from going for the throat.

"Because you were deemed my babysitter this afternoon and if something happens to me you'd never stop blaming yourself. I'm going after Shane if you come or not, Glenn. Hopefully, you will, because we've all seen how poor my sense of direction can be and I'd like to get there before nightfall."

_"Not to mention,"_ Dale adds in a scolding tone that does absolutely nothing to deter me. "We have to find our people, reconnect. You can take the Cherokee and T-Dog while you're at it. That cut on his arm is not looking good. With any luck, the people at the farm will have antibiotics on hand."

"The HELL didn't you say anything?"

Daryl demands of Dale and T, immediately going to his brothers motorcycle and flipping open the saddlebags to pull out Merle's stash, including but not limited to, "Kick ass painkillers and doxycycline."  
Thank the Lord for Merle's sexual deviancy.

I reach out, plucking the prescription bottles from Daryl's hands before turning to T who is sitting on the rear bumper of the RV, bundled up in a blanket despite the oppressive heat. I dole out one of each pill and stand there, hands on my hips until he's dry-swallowed them both down.

"You're still coming with us." I declare.

Then I call out to Glenn, impatient: "Well? Let's go!"

* * *

It's good that Glenn had been paying attention to the directions he'd been given because as the Cherokee ate up the miles beneath us I grew more and more frenzied, eager to lay eyes on Shane, to confirm that he's okay.

To check on Carl and offer what comfort I can.

"Is this it?" I ask, drumming my fingers nervously on the dash, staring up at an old farmhouse. "This is the place?"

"Well," T-Dog begins sardonically from the backseat, putting a jump into me; I hadn't realized he was awake back there.

"Considering we just drove up a mile of unpaved driveway to get to the only house in sight, I'd hope so."

I glance over my shoulder to see that T has sat up fully and is staring at me, unmoved.

"You need to calm down, Savannah."

I scoff at this, whirling around as the car grinds to an uncharacteristically clumsy stop.

"Just let me handle this, okay?" Glenn bites off, making me feel like a bickering child;  
he leaves the car, slamming the door loudly behind himself before I can apologize.

Instead, I help T out, the both of us sharing a sheepish glance as I re-wrap the natty blanket around his shoulders while Glenn hefts his borrowed rifle.

"So...do I ring the bell?"

I busy myself, making a very pointed effort not to burst out into inappropriate laughter.

"We're past that, aren't we?" T-Dog scoffs.

"No," I disagree-both men ignore me.

"People live here," Glenn protests.

"We don't know these people and we have to be considerate?!" T-Dog seems surprised.

Well, yeah.  
"That's generally the way these things work."  
Especially when one of ours was taken in.

"Did you all close the gate?"

A female voice with a deep drawl asks from the shadows making the three of us flinch and band together, eerily reminiscent of the old Scooby-Doo cartoons.  
The owner of the voice moves a little, just enough that we can see a young face peering out of the shadows at us.

"The gate leading to the road?"  
The woman presses and I'm amused to see Glenn fall all over himself to assure her that, yes, we had.  
I can't say I blame him; she's exceptionally pretty.

"We came to help," T-Dog informs her, surly with his fever. "If there's anything we can do, we will."

I'm practically hopping from foot to foot as we plow through the varied niceties of this new age, the chief question being: "Anyone bit?"

"No," It's unanimous. "But he-" I jerk my head in Dog's direction, who is listing dangerously to the side "-cut himself pretty bad?"  
Not wanting to outright ask for even more of their help, but obliged to nonetheless.

"We have painkillers and antibiotics if Carl-or anyone in your camp-needs them. I'm Savannah, by the way, Savannah Walsh. This is Glenn Rhee and, uh...T-Dog." My botched introduction brings a smile and-blessedly-opens the door for us.

"Maggie Greene. Come on inside. I'll fix y'all something to eat."


	7. Please Come Home To Me

Before we can eat, or even_ think_ of eating, Glenn, T-Dog, and I are led to Carl's bedside where Lori and Rick are holding vigil.

The three of us can do little more than stand there like lumps, useless onlookers, fully aware there is nothing we can say or do-short of a miracle-that will comfort the unconscious boy, or his parents.

Among us, it's Glenn who breaks the uneasy silence.  
"We're here, okay? We're here when you need us."

And this is the truth, although it becomes astoundingly clear with the look she throws me that Lori would like us-me-to be anywhere but 'here'. There is no doubt in my mind that this will be nothing like Rick's injury.

Then, I was tolerated as we waiting for things to get better or worse, more for Shane's sake than anything.  
Now...? Forget it.

Spurred from this thought, I touch the presumable woman of the house's elbow, drawing her out of the room discretely.

"What's the.." I pause, searching for the proper word. Eventually, it comes to me.  
"What's the prognosis?"

The woman I'm asking seems almost as clueless as I am.

"Internal bleedin'?" Her uncertainty turns it into a question.  
"There's a fragment from the bullet that...needs to come out." She pauses before adding emphasis;  
"We need to get it out. Immediately."

I only dimly note the men emerging from the room behind us, leaving the Grimes family alone.

"And my husband, Shane?"

This is met with a blank stare for an insufferably long moment, so I prompt her.  
"He was with Carl, and Rick."

This makes something click, some recognition. "Oh, Shane. Yeah."

"Where is he, do you know?"

My own patience astounds me.

"He's..." the woman seems to trail off on some internal tangent-shock, no doubt-before making an effort to snap herself back into the moment at hand.  
"He's gone." Is the simple answer I'm given, stated with such blank finality that there is not even so much as a gentle swoon from me.

I sit down, hard, exactly where I had been standing.  
It's as if my legs had just stopped working at this news, driving me to the floor.

"Oh, jeez," Glenn groans, pressing his hands to his head, looking like an advertisement for an Excedrin headache.  
"This is bad. This is_ so_ bad."

I'm trying to speak, trying to ask the proper questions, or at least peel myself off of the floor, but nothing is happening.  
I can barely even breathe.

Our reaction jars the woman and you can almost physically see her first mentally replay her words and then recoil from them before she is on the floor herself, arm around my shoulders, drawing me back up.

"Oh, no. No. Shane's_ fine_, he went to gather supplies with Otis..I'm so sorry, I didn't think-"

"He what?" I'm fairly sure I should be furious at her speaking so carelessly, but I'm too relieved to feel much of anything else.

"Carl needs a respirator before Daddy can operate, but they should have been back by now."

So, I was wrong, I find.  
I can feel more than relief, if the horror coursing through me is anything to go by.

Surgery? Operate? This is absolutely more than I can process.

Thankfully, I remain unaware of the fact that it is at this moment 5 miles up the road that my husband is pinned against a brick wall with walkers trying everything in their considerable mindless power to get at him.  
Shane is standing there staring a rotted corpse in its sightless eyes thinking about the kiss he had pressed to my forehead in the woods that afternoon before sending me off with Glenn, sure this is the last time we will have ever seen each other, wishing he had kissed me full on the lips, puke breath or not.

If I'd known any of this I would have been driven to the ground all over again.

* * *

I've lost all sense of accurate time when the truck finally pulls in the drive-there is no sun to gauge by and all I know for sure is that it's been a few hours at least, making it late.

I start down the porch stairs where I had been perched and then falter, making out only one dim shape in the cab.

In the backwash of the headlights, it's impossible to see inside.

It could be Shane, or it could very well be...what was his name? Odie?

There's a minute where this is unclear-a minute that feels like days-while I stand there on those steps and selfishly hope it's some other woman's man who hasn't made it back, and not my own.  
I know this is wrong and hateful, but I can't stop it any more than I can change the tide.

Then, the figure climbs out from behind the drivers seat, favoring one leg and as the light from the overhead dome inside the cab comes on, the silhouette becomes more clear and I can see Shane.

My legs once again betray me and I curse them for not moving faster towards him.

Thankfully, an explosion of people, some I recognize, some I don't, comes pouring from the house to grab the gear Shane had risked his fool neck for, all of them moving far more quickly than I could hope to. This all still feels like a very vivid dream.

"Carl?" Shane asks the group at large, ignoring the questions being volleyed his way.

The boys name seems to be all he can manage.

"There's still a chance," Rick tells his best friend, lightening Shane's load both literally as he takes a bag and figuratively as he provides this meager reassurance.

"Otis...?" A older man with a shock of white hair asks, breaking through the crowd, and although anyone living in this world should know better than to hope, he clearly does.

"No," Shane shakes his head, looking close to broken, leaning heavily on the trucks door in the shocked silence that follows.

The cicadas make a racket while this is processed.

Finally, "We say nothing to Patricia!" Whitey orders, continuing on with a raised voice, but the rest is lost on me as I marvel. Patricia.

It could have just as easily been Rick doling out the same precaution over me.

Jeez.

Jeez Louise.

Instead, Rick holds onto his best friend, the pair of them sporting thousand-yard stares, breathing raggedly.

I wait, letting them have their moment, hanging back as the group disperses.

Shane's speaking, I can tell from his rapid hand movements but I can't make a single word out, not from the porch.

Rick says something, a word, and then leaves Shane behind, rushing in after the group to help.

Abruptly, we're alone outside and this is when I go to him, feeling more and more like I can breathe freely, like I'm finally waking from the awful dream-feeling, as I sprint towards Shane.

The look on his face as he sees me bolting towards him is nothing short of stunned, sending him rocking on his heels. "Savannah Jane?"

I barrel into him without speaking, taking him at an awkward angle and knocking the both of us damn-near over.

Pulling away long enough to check for any visible bites, or scratches although at this point, I'm crying so hard I can't hardly see.

"You're okay? You're okay."

Then I note Shane awkwardly shifting his weight, drawing my attention unwittingly back to his ankle.

"Is it broken?"

I have no idea what we'll do if it is-does the doc inside know how to set bones? Is he even a real doc?

"Sprained," Shane answers, and I feel tension lifted from my shoulders.

Sprained isn't good, but we can handle that on our own if we need to.

"Was it bad?" I don't need to qualify that I'm no longer asking over his ankle.

"It was close, Savannah Jane."

My hands begin to shake furiously, but I make a point to ignore them.

"How did you get here?" There is mild wonder in Shane's voice, but I ignore this too, shrugging his question away.

"Later." I sling his arm around my shoulders and he leans into me. "Let's get inside."

We cross the yard without speaking, Shane walking with a noticeable limp, but nothing he can't overcome.

"Wait, okay?" Shane asks, cautiously lowering himself onto the porch steps I had only recently vacated.

I sit next to him, without hesitation and when he leans in, I place my arms around his broad, dirty shoulders and just hold on.


	8. A Real Hero

Smut warning xox

Inside the house, things are awful, with the surgery over and a high keening wail piercing the air of the kitchen, carrying around the other rooms.

I know just enough about the downstairs layout to steer us away from the scene that is unfolding, but am stymied at the stairs; where were we supposed to go from here? Up, presumably, but I worried about over-stepping our bounds.

Shane, who has been leaning on me to get around, turns me loose to clutch at the banister, clearly making the decision to go up if I did or not. I'm too out of breath and relieved to have his weight redistributed to argue.

Pixie-Cut materializes from one of the side bedrooms holding a clutch of what appears to be gym clothes.  
"Here," she hefts them out to me, and surprised, I take them.  
"Shower's upstairs, to the left. Those," nodding to the clothes I'm holding in a ball,  
"won't fit him real well. They were..."  
She trails off, leaving us for a moment as she goes completely blank as the grief sounds anew, louder than ever.  
"They were Otis's. Do you need anything else? Do you want to see Carl first?"  
This about Carl is a good question, one I wouldn't have thought to ask.  
Still, Shane declines, firmly.  
"No. No, a shower's just the thing. Thank you."  
"I can take him up," I offer, opening a dismissal for the girl if she wants to take it, and looking relieved, she does.  
"Remember, on the left. Ya'll can take the bedroom next door."  
I nod but before I can thank her, she is turning on her heel away from us, and then she's gone.

"These stairs're hell," Shane remarks offhandedly as we reach the top. He's more winded than I have seen him be in quite some time.  
"You're sure it's a sprain?" I'm nervous of his answer, hoping for reassurance, which I receive.  
"Just a sprain, Savannah. A shower, some rest, I'll be fine in the mornin'."  
"If you say so..." I concur, reluctantly; I don't want to hover over him, but it appears to be a duty that comes with love or so I discover once we've (finally, mercifully) reached the small bathroom.  
"Do you need...?" I trail off, uncertain. What, an extra towel? A hand?  
"Me?"  
This is surely a lame finish, but Shane accepts it gracefully, putting a hand atop my head to keep me still as he leans in close, pressing his forehead to mine.  
"Always, Savannah Jane," Shane answers companionably and I love him for giving me such a sweet moment before he opens the bathroom door and enters under his own steam. "But I got this one."  
"I'm gonna go check out our room-come find me when you're done here, okay?"  
Shen smiles; it's small and brief, but for a moment, it's there nonetheless. "That's a promise."

The room we're given is between the bathroom and another bedroom, sparse with a bed and nightstands complete with empty drawers, but there is electricity, for a little while, and a bed frame, with real sheets, so I can't complain.

Shane comes to me not much later in the night, banging loudly into the room just as I'm about to doze off on top of the covers, startling the hell out of me. But he's alive, so let him come.

My breath catches at the sight of him, freshly shaven head catching the lamp light, wearing old grey sweatpants and not a whole lot else.

"What did you _do?!_" My voice sounds thin, reedy. Shocked.

Shane doesn't appear to hear this at all as he shuts the door behind himself, obviously preoccupied and not even attempting to be quiet.

"Otis..." Shane begins haltingly instead of answering my question and goes to rub his head, hand jerking away startled when he doesn't encounter hair. "I tried, baby. I tried, and I couldn't..."

Shane doesn't seem to be able to finish his sentence and quite honestly I'm fine without hearing it.  
Whatever it is, he's a mess over it and my job is to fix as much as I can as quickly as I can.

"I know, Shane," I soothe instead of pressing him and this appears to do the trick-he all but flies across the room to the bed I'd been occupying, limping footsteps thudding across the wood floor.

Shane's crying and I'm crying (again) when, somehow, his mouth finds mine, feverish and needy, his bruised up hand (it seems as if he's always bruised these days) cupping my face while the other is reaching out to fumble with the bedside lamp.

Once we're bathed in darkness, both hands come back to me, Shane bringing up the knee of his hurt leg to rest on the bed between mine.  
I'm sure he's shut the door behind himself, but I find that I'm clueless as to whether or not the door comes equipped with a lock, and if so, was it engaged? Probably not, but I'm past caring as Shane brings his other leg up, carefully caging me in while both hands move south to cup my breasts. My fingers find the sweatpants' drawstring almost automatically, fingers delving beneath the waistband, finding him hard. Once undone the pants fall with little prodding and I ditch the shirt I'd been wearing all day and Shane flings my panties somewhere in the darkened room behind us, the both of us naked now as Shane shifts his weight, taking me backwards, him landing almost painfully heavy fully atop of me.

"I need you,"  
Shane pants, one hand trailing down to cup my sex hotly.  
If his voice hadn't cracked with emotion this moment would be perfect, some detached part of my brain notes.  
Having Shane in a real bed again, plain vanilla sex with a roof over our heads.  
And to think, I had once taken this for-granted; are you kidding me?  
"I need you, Savannah Jane,"  
His hand bares down rendering me mindless for one exquisite moment, making me gasp out loud.  
"I know, Shane,"  
I repeat myself dumbly-it seems to be all I'm capable of saying until a moment later when he's slid deep into me in one fluid movement, not just making me gasp this time, but making my breath stop entirely, at least until I've grown accustomed to the heavy weight of him inside of me.  
I come back to myself (thus, to Shane) fully when he begins to move, the friction and heat beginning to mount immediately.  
"I know, baby,"  
I clutch at his back unwittingly leaving long scratches even with my short, blunt fingernails.  
Shane groans at this and my legs wrap around him practically of their own accord.  
"I'm here," I reassure, catching myself just as I go to grab his hair and tug.  
It's going to be a tough habit to break, especially in the heat of the moment like this.  
"Savannah, girl," Shane groans again, more loudly this time.  
The headboard's meeting the wall with a dull thudding noise over and over again but Shane's too close, and hell so am I, to stop now, even if it means the whole house catches on to what we're doing.  
"I'm right here, Shane."  
He moves faster, at this, faster as he's dipping his head to catch the soft skin of my neck between his teeth, first sucking and then biting, _hard._  
And it's good that he's made me breathless in my orgasm; otherwise, the screaming would have brought everyone on the run.  
It's also fortunate that his face is buried in my neck, muffling Shane as he flies right over the edge with me.


End file.
